


Imagination Infatuation

by Partymeowth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Jesse McCree Has a Big Dick, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Hanzo Shimada, Power Play, Riding, Shotgunning, Size Queen Hanzo Shimada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 09:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18989638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Partymeowth/pseuds/Partymeowth
Summary: After many, many years of having crushes he’s forbidden from acting upon, Hanzo's used to relying on his imagination to make up for the absence of anything concrete.





	Imagination Infatuation

**Author's Note:**

> "Infatuation by imagination, why are we the right pair in a world that's not there...
> 
> Loving is easy to do, when my imagination gets the best of you."

When Hanzo falls, he falls hard.

Since making the acquaintance of one resident sharp-shooting cowboy, Hanzo has been endlessly tormented by _feelings_. Their friendship had started off strained, as Hanzo is no master of socialization, and Jesse was just as wary as the rest of the crew upon the arrival of their friend’s murderer. But Jesse and Hanzo’s vast number of similarities drew them to each other like magnets, and their equal amount of differences always sparked enough intrigue to carry conversations. It becomes too easy to talk to him, and Hanzo knows he has it bad when he finds himself actively looking forward to spending time with him.

It doesn’t help that they flirt more frequently than is normal for a casual friendship. Jesse has made more jokes about Hanzo being “handy” than he can count, and Hanzo’s playful jabs at the size of Jesse’s clearly-overcompensating belt buckle have been met with teasing invitations to “find out for himself.” (None of which he has ever taken him up on, because obviously it would ruin the precarious nature of their game.)

It’s enjoyable in bursts, but Hanzo would be lying if he said that coyly dancing around his desire for something more isn’t getting tiresome.

It’s a particularly lonely night. Normally, Hanzo would be sharing drinks and a movie with Jesse, as Friday nights are typically spent watching films together in the common room. But Jesse is currently on the other side of the world, embarking on a mission that requires him to attend a gala. And what a cruel joke _that_ is, that there is a rare occasion in which Jesse will be gussied up, and Hanzo is not there to bear witness to the spectacle.

In hindsight, it really _is_ for the best. Hanzo would only make a miserable fool out of himself with fumbled advances, and likely destroy their carefully-built friendship.

That doesn’t prevent him from sulking alone in his room about it. It’s approximately two in the morning and he’s sitting up in his bed, wallowing in the dark, his piteous pining unbeknownst to anyone but himself. Thankfully after many, many years of having crushes he’s forbidden from acting upon, he’s used to relying on his imagination to make up for the absence of anything concrete.

When he closes his eyes, he’s graced with a mental painting of the ballroom, brightly-lit and decorated in elegant ivories and golds. Across the room stands one instantly-recognizable Jesse McCree, gripping a glass of scotch and rattling the ice poignantly, the picture of self-importance. He’s approached with tentative business propositions from starry-eyed executives, all of which are met with snide laughter and dismissive flicks of a metal wrist. Not once does a turned-away tycoon appear cross, but rather, enduringly entranced, as though the meager opportunity to speak to someone so influential has left them stricken in prolonged awe.

Hanzo is dressed to the nines as well, of course, but oh, how he pales in comparison to the man emanating radiance from the other end of the dance hall. Miraculously, their eyes meet, and it’s as tumultuous as the planets aligning, as seamless as the invisible link that turns stars into constellations, as breathtaking as the first rays of the morning sun cresting the horizon. He’s unworthy of the man’s scrutiny, but he’s permitted it all the same, and only a fool would shy away from the charitable recognition of a saint. Within his stomach, it’s as though a dove runs rampant, the downy ends of its feathers tickling his ribcage with each startled feint of its wings.

Lo and behold, Jesse McCree actually begins to approach, and attracting this much attention from the man is a feat that renders Hanzo motionless, heart stuttering as though buffeted by the wings of the flighty dove previously tethered to his abdomen. Jesse halts in front of him, quirks his head to one side, flashes a charming smile, and Hanzo thinks he might faint.

His daydream grinds to a halt as it’s forced to surmise dialogue, given the man in question has a very peculiar way of speaking. Frustration wells in his chest, the heat of which draws his attention to an entirely different kind of dissatisfaction.

The fantasy is as tame as a school child’s first tentative notions of a crush, and yet Hanzo is rock hard. He feels like a guilty adolescent caught with a lewd magazine in his hands, except he is his own disappointed parent in this scenario, shaking his head at his severe lack of dignity.

His self-awareness prompts the fictional scenario to take a sharp turn, delving into a plot as contrived as a rushed pornography film.

For whatever reason, they are no longer residing amongst throngs of people in the main hall, but rather, they have stowed themselves away beneath one of the many stairwells winding along a higher floor out of the near-dozen. The sound of the party is muted by layers of granite, the piano trickling through the solid ground in faint waves, pompous bursts of laughter intermittently leaking into earshot.

Jesse procures a cigar from his jacket’s inner pouch and clamps his teeth around it, a smirk ghosting over his parted lips when Hanzo quirks a critical eyebrow. “Should you be smoking that in here?” he asks, frowning in disapproval.

“Don’t rightly care,” Jesse says, finding his voice somewhere within the depths of Hanzo’s desperately horny memory banks. They’re both huddled close together, enough that their sleeves brush when Jesse reaches down to fish a lighter from his pants pocket.

“You know,” Hanzo boldly begins, register dipping into a suggestive purr as he leans further into Jesse’s space, “I can think of a better use for your lips, if you are so desperate to wrap them around something.”

He’s leveled with a calculatingly even look, and then the cigar shifts to the corner of Jesse’s lips, liberating enough space for him to speak.

“Wow, Hanzo,” he croons in that silky dulcet, and as he flicks the lighter to life, the spark ignites something wicked in his amber irises, “I never woulda took ya for a lil _slut_.”

The breath leaves Hanzo’s lungs in one fell swoop, heat dropping into his gut like a smoldering lump of coal. It’s enough to jolt him temporarily back to the real world, and in a horny frenzy, he begins to paw at the tent in his boxer-briefs. His room is barren and somber, a terribly frigid reminder of how alone he truly is, but he banishes reality away by slamming his eyes shut and delving back into his futile fantasy.

The miniature flame laps warmth against his cheeks, and it fails to vanish completely even when the lighter is clicked shut. The end of the cigar stick flares a bright orange, smoke lazily rising from the embers as Jesse inhales. He simultaneously drifts toward Hanzo while relinquishing the cigar between the webs of his fingers, the scant space between them buzzing with tension akin to electricity. Jesse’s nose bumps Hanzo’s in a silent question, and Hanzo jerkily nods his assent.

Their lips meet and slot together naturally, like they’ve already done this a million times, and the feeling is intoxicating on its own. Then smoke streams over Hanzo’s tongue, acrid and foul and _perfect_ , sticking hotly to the roof of his mouth as Jesse withdraws, and he all but melts into a light-headed puddle of infatuation.  

A fond glimmer shines in Jesse’s eye as he watches Hanzo, like he’s hyper-aware that he’s turning his heart to mush and loves every second of it. There’s a renewed sense of purpose in the set of his shoulders as he takes another drag, and this time Hanzo is ready and waiting, eagerly bracing himself when Jesse’s soft lips approach, sighing when they graze softly over his own, jaw slackening hungrily as smoke is delicately expelled over his taste buds.

This time when Jesse recedes, he does not take another hit, but rather, dangles the cigar near the upward curl of his seductive smile. In a tone as smooth as silk, he suggests, “Now, why don’tcha be a good boy and get down on your knees for m—“

A trill slices like a knife through Hanzo’s silent room, and his heart leaps into his throat. His phone continues to ring, oblivious to the cardiac distress it had caused its owner, and Hanzo needs only glance at the contact image before he is releasing himself and scrabbling to answer it. “H-hello?”

“Hey, darlin’,” Jesse’s honeyed accent pours through the receiver, as warm and thick as syrup, “you okay? You sound kinda like—ah, Christ.”

Hanzo’s blood turns to ice, stricken with the asinine assumption that he _knows_. That somehow, from thousands of miles away, Jesse has acquired the ability to peer through the cracks of his walls, that he had _seen_ everything, and that this very call is for the sole purpose of rubbing salt into Hanzo’s reclusive wound. _‘Face it, Hanzo, you’ll never be worthy of love, especially from a man as reputable and benevolent as me!’_

“I woke ya, didn’t I?” is what Jesse says instead of something terrifyingly accusatory. “Shit, I’m real sorry. Completely forgot ‘bout the time difference.”

“Oh.” Hanzo struggles to reign his thoughts back to reality, clawing them out of the reprehensible muck of scandalized foreboding. “No, I was awake,” he admits, fiercely ignoring the heat that stubbornly culminates in his cheeks. “Is there a reason for your call?”

“Nah, not really, I just…” A sigh rustles through the receiver. “I hate these kinda functions. Buncha douchebags flashin’ how much money they got, as if it makes them better than anyone else. The air was so stuffy it was makin’ me nauseous. Figured I’d step out and make a few calls in the meantime.”

_‘A few,’_ Hanzo thinks, and he’s instantly cross at himself for the disappointment he feels at just being another number in Jesse’s extensive list of friends. “I used to be one of those douchebags, you know,” he points out airily, hoping the comment comes across as casual.

“Aw, _‘used to.’_ Mighty modest of ya,” Jesse taunts, and just like that, they fall into their comfortable back-and-forth of jabs at one another’s expense. It eases Hanzo’s flustered mind back into relaxed normalcy.

“Yes, well, I would hardly consider it a tragedy that one of us knows how to dress himself,” he points out, offering a derisive shrug that goes unseen.

Jesse graces him with a hearty chuckle before rebuffing, “I must not’ve gotten the memo that runnin’ around with your tit hangin’ out is a new fashion trend.”

“It is _tactical_ ,” Hanzo sniffs contemptuously, self-consciously running a hand through his mussed bangs.

“Sure it is, if your tactic is seduction.” It’s not a new brand of retort by any means, but Hanzo stiffens all the same, his heart in too vulnerable a place for this kind of light-hearted teasing.

He hastily alters course, veering the subject into safer territory. “All the same, you are one to talk about absurd attire. I, at least, do not wear a hat indoors.”

“It’s _tactical_ ,” Jesse mocks. “No one needs to see my hat hair.”

Horror seeps into Hanzo’s tone as he cannot help but implore, “ _Please_ tell me you are not wearing your hat right now."

“Oh, calm your horses, ye of little faith.” The roll of Jesse’s eyes is practically audible. “I know better than to wear a hat ‘round rich folk.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I could take a picture, if’n you want,” Jesse offers. Hanzo neglects to respond, as every working gear in his brain has promptly short-circuited, to the point where he is certain smoke may start to escape his unoccupied ear. “You still there?”

“I—yes,” he stammers, shifting the phone away from his ear ever-so-slightly, worried it might otherwise overheat from the sheer temperature radiating from his cheeks.

“Thought I lost ya for a sec.” Hanzo _swears_ he can hear the smirk on Jesse’s lips when he simpers, “You weren’t thinkin’ of a _different_ kinda pic, were ya, pumpkin?”

“I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about,” Hanzo stiltedly rebukes, resenting Jesse’s penchant for ridiculous pet names now more than ever.

“I don’t usually send that kinda stuff, but reckon if ya twist my arm enough, I _might_ be tempted to finally prove all your lil belt-buckle wisecracks wrong,” he continues, and it all feels too pointed, recanting back to the wild concept that he somehow _knows_.

“What are you talking about?” The question comes out harsher than Hanzo had intended, roughened with nerves.

“Nothin’.” Amusement plummets from Jesse’s cadence, leaving the negating word bare-boned and dry. A brief silence follows, then comes a quiet mutter of, “Forget it.” It’s all very strange and uncomfortable, leaving Hanzo with the most unusual itch, like when one forgets something at home but can not recall what that missing object even is.

“To answer your previous question,” Hanzo says, breaching the abruptly awkward atmosphere, “yes, I would like to see a picture.” Recognizing the potential for a mix-up, he then clarifies, “Of your outfit.”

“Kay, one sec.” There’s a dejectedly sullen note still lingering in Jesse’s voice, and Hanzo vehemently pretends not to hear it, lest he make things exponentially worse. The distinct snap of an artificial camera shutter filters through the call, followed by a prognostic _swoop_.

Hanzo’s phone dings, signalling a transmitted message. Cautiously, he maneuvers it so that he can see the screen, tapping the text notification with a shaky finger.

The picture that pops up onto the screen is exhilarating in its marked beauty. It’s not professional by any means of the word, but it’s spectacular all the same. Jesse’s standing at a side-angle, arm extended toward the screen, which is positioned slightly above his head. His chestnut hair is unfettered by a hat, as he had claimed, and it’s clear he put some effort into how it falls, though there are a few persistent tufts tousled this way and that. Even his beard looks as though a comb has been run through it for once.

His body encompasses most of the frame, revealing a tailored onyx suit and a slightly askew red tie. The fitted fabric accentuates his broad shoulders and hugs his husky chest quite nicely, and his straining slacks do obscene things to his crotch region. Not that Hanzo’s ogling, or anything.

Perhaps most breathtaking is the reflection of the balcony’s string lights in Jesse’s hazel eyes, speckles of ivory strewn across his pupils, looking for all the world like a miniature galaxy. Hanzo is struck with the inexplicable urge to go stargazing within them, certain that the authentic kind would not do this version justice.

“Like what you see?” Jesse slyly hedges when the silence stretches too long, prompting Hanzo to finally tear his gaze away from the image and bring the phone back to his ear.

“Yes, actually,” Hanzo answers, his honesty surprising even himself. “You clean up well.”

“Thanks.” He sounds endearingly bashful for a spell, but the confident edge returns when he asks, “What’re the odds I’ll get to see you all dolled up sometime?”

Hanzo scoffs. “Slim to none.” He reconsiders his whip-snap remark, then roguishly amends,  “Unless you play your cards right, cowboy.”

“I would hope playin’ my cards right wouldn’t get ya into _more_ clothes.” That _is_ considered making a pass, right? Surely Hanzo is not hallucinating the purr dripping from Jesse’s rumbling tone? Surely he had not dozed off in the middle of their conversation and is dreaming this exchange? When he fails to muster a reply, an anxious chuckle quivers over the line. “Sorry, I—shit, that wasn’t business-appropriate.” His apology wavers with put-upon mirth, and it would be easy to accept it for what it is, to drop the subject entirely. “This is all just very stressful, and,” an aggravated huff billows through the the receiver, “and these pants are too damn tight.”

Hanzo’s mouth goes dry. “Really?” he fights to keep his voice level, to not betray his interest.

A beat, almost like Jesse is stewing in thought. “Yeah.” There’s a regretful note there, looming uncertainly. But Hanzo has spied an opportunity, and he’s just this side of desperate. He can’t resist seizing it.

“That would not be an issue if I were there,” he replies off-handedly.

“Oh?” He’s curious, certainly, and Hanzo knows he isn’t imagining the titillated lilt to his ensuing inquiry, “And what would you do if you were here?”

“I would take care of you,” he promises assertively, and then, to soften the statement into a less intimidating prospect, “if you would like me to, that is.”

There’s an unnaturally long pause, and Hanzo’s teeth dig apprehensively into his lower lip, fearing the worst. “Christ, Hanzo,” Jesse breathes, the whisper teetering one way and then the other, unable to catch its bearings. He doesn’t sound disgusted, like Hanzo had fretted, merely… taken aback.

“Would you like that?” Hanzo presses. He receives no response, but the natural static hitches in telltale anticipation, and it’s more than enough encouragement for his lust-addled brain. “Would you like if I were to relieve some of the pressure below your belt?”

“ _Christ_ , Hanzo,” he sounds like a broken record at this point, repetitive words fraying at the edges. “I’m—I have to go.”

“Oh,” the syllable falls forlornly from his lips, his heart sinking alongside it. He scrambles for an apology, unable to shake the dread that accompanies ruining something—a recurring feeling that he will never get used to, but will never fail to incite with his thoughtless actions regardless. “Wait, wait, I am really sorry, I did not—“

_Click_. The line goes dead.

Slowly, Hanzo peels the phone away from his ear and stares down at the dropped call. His arousal flags, the heat extinguished by ice-cold shame. He fucked up.

He fucked up, _bad_.

In a matter of minutes, he has just shattered one of the most rewarding relationships he’s ever had. All of those treasured moments and cherished conversations, all of those nights spent talking until the sun came up, all of those shared drinks and shed tears and spent laughter… Soured, like milk left out of the refrigerator; curdled and rotten and expired. And for what? A fraction of pleasure that he doesn’t even deserve in the first place?

He’s left gazing owlishly into the dim, all hopes of sleeping dashed entirely. At first, he leans into the slumber drought, utilizing the surplus of time by inwardly scolding himself for being such an impudent fool. Gradually, though, self-deprecation gives way to plain exhaustion, and he reluctantly sinks into his pillow, beseeching an escape from his self-wrought inner turmoil. He tosses and turns, and his mattress mourns his fruitless attempts at sleep with resigned creaks.

Approximately a half-hour passes before he receives his second call of the night, this one remarkably more jarring than the last.

The small square of light emanating from his phone is practically blinding, and Hanzo squints past the glare blurring the familiar contact image, convinced he’s dreaming. Cautiously, he scoops the phone up, and it’s with shaky fingers that he answers the call and feebly croaks out, “Hello…?”

“Hey,” comes Jesse’s reply, startlingly casual, as though he hadn’t ended their earlier call in a flummoxed frenzy. “Listen, about what just—”

“Wait,” Hanzo interrupts in a panic-stricken scramble, “Before you say anything, I need you to know that I am terribly sorry for coming on so strongly. I must have misread the signals, but that is entirely on me and I apologize. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable. I understand if you do not wish to speak to me again, but please know that I value our friendship above all else, and I am willing to do whatever necessary to salvage it.”

Silence tails his babbling explanation, the sound of his own heaving breaths seeming to echo off the walls. Then, finally, Jesse asks, with all the calm of a deep blue sky, “Can I speak now?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Hanzo hastily insists, feeling sheepish for having dominated the conversation with his long-winded apology.

“Alrighty. Well, uh, first of all, ya didn’t misread nothin’. I was one-hundred percent comin’ onto you. Have been for a while, actually.” An audible wince seems to tweak Jesse’s admission, making it as gawky as it is genuine, and Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat.

He works his jaw for something coherent, and finally ekes out a flabbergasted, “ _What…?_ ”

It’s easy to picture Jesse scratching idly at the nape of his neck—a nervous tic Hanzo had picked up on early into their blossoming friendship—as he bashfully mumbles, “Yeah, uh, I just… I dunno, I just sorta always played it off as a joke, ‘cause I figured it would make it easier if you rejected me.”

Awestruck, Hanzo struggles to wrap his head around this new information, unable to make sense of something as far fetched as Jesse harboring mutual feelings toward him. “But you… hung up on me.”

“I was in the middle of a fancy-schmancy shindig and I’d _just_ told you my pants were tight,” Jesse explains defensively. “Thought you were bein’ an evil bastard and fuckin’ around with me.”

This doesn’t feel real. The altruistic Jesse McCree confessing to popping a boner in public due to the actions of the contemptible Hanzo Shimada? There can only be one feasible explanation for this. “Are you drunk?” he asks meekly, dreading the inevitable affirmation.

A speculative hum meets his inquiry, which only fuels his jittering anxiety. Then, earnestly, “I had enough champagne to float a duck, but I also ate my weight in crab cakes, so… no, I’m not drunk. Buzzed, maybe.” Oh, this _can’t_ be real. Hanzo is just surreptitiously administering an experimental pinch to his inner elbow when Jesse tentatively reflects, “Are… _you_ drunk?”

“No,” Hanzo says slowly, numbly, blinking hard into the unerring darkness of his room. “No, I am sober.”

“Okay. Good.” His tone is disconcertingly awkward, like he’s trying to feel out where to go from here. Hanzo spares him the struggle.

“Are you turned on?” he asks bluntly, too thrown off to do anything but jump into this surreal situation head-first.

“I’m—I—“ he stumbles over clumsy consonants, then mumbles a hoarse, “Yeah.”

“Me too,” Hanzo breathes, slumping back, caught in the warring vice grip of relief and bewilderment.

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” Jesse admits in a rush, like if it doesn’t all come out at once, it might not at all, “‘Bout how good you’d look prancin’ around that party in a fitted suit.” There’s a stuttering growl, like he’s in the midst of biting off his next comment, but he must evidently decide _‘fuck it’,_ for he winds up sinfully murmuring, “And ‘bout how you’d look even better on your knees in front of me.”

Hanzo feels as though he’s just been dunked into a pit of boiling lava. His mind reels, grappling for cohesive feedback. What he settles for is a chastely befuddled, “Where are you right now?”

“Hotel room. Practically ran here with my tail ‘tween my legs.” There’s not even an ounce of shame in that statement, all of it seemingly squeezed out by the tautness of his throat, leaving only a randy wheeze in its wake.

“You _are_ aware that tails are typically located on the _opposite_ side of your body, yes?” It’s probably not an appropriate time for snark, but with an opening _that_ tempting, Hanzo simply can’t resist.

“Hardy-har,” Jesse deadpans, but an undercurrent of genuine amusement dampens his attempt to scorn the joke. “Keep yukkin’ it up, Funnyman, and I might hang up on ya for real.”

“Calling back does not invalidate the fact that you hung up in the first place,” Hanzo points out snidely, just the tiniest bit miffed that he’d been left—quite literally—in the dark on Jesse’s true feelings toward his flirtatious advances.

“Whatever you say, puddin’ pop.” The dismissiveness of the statement would be more insulting if it wasn’t followed with an impatient, “Anyway, at the risk of soundin’ like a disrespectful horndog, do you think you could, uh… finish paintin’ that pretty picture you was treatin’ me to earlier?”

Oh. Right. Phone sex. With Jesse McCree. An opportunity to obtain something he’s been craving since the conception of his painfully potent crush. How could he forget?

“Yes,” he briskly answers, mentally scrambling back into their prior fabricated positions, heat crashing over him in a flustered wave and making it difficult to conjure anything cohesive. “You were, er… on the balcony, yes?”

“Yeah,” Jesse confirms in a mere grunt.

“And you were complaining about the constriction of your pants.” He’s admittedly stalling a little, and he’s certain it’s transparent. Beyond the vague teasing he was providing Jesse with earlier, he’s never had much experience with dirty talk. It feels like an activity that would be more suited for someone with as colorful a vocabulary as Jesse’s.

“Uh-huh,” Jesse eggs him on regardless, and Hanzo would have to be a spectacular brand of idiot to ruin this.

“So, in that case… I would have, I suppose, first led you to a secluded corner… Somewhere out of sight, so as not to jeopardize your mission or—“

“Y’know what, no, stop,” Jesse cuts in. Hanzo’s heart drops like a heavy stone. As it turns out, he is the _exact_ brand of self-destructive idiot it takes to wreck this. He’s just in the process of forming a fragile apology when Jesse says, “Let’s just do right now.”

Hanzo blinks, lost. “What?”

“What would ya do if you were here _right now?_ ” Jesse urges.

“Hm…” This, Hanzo thinks he can work with. “Are you sitting on the bed?”

“Yup. Took my pants off, though,” Jesse proudly informs him.

Hanzo is sure he heard that wrong. “What? Already?”

“You got no idea what you do to me,” Jesse breathes in lieu of an answer, and the husky fringe to his words kicks the horny portion of Hanzo’s brain back into gear. He pictures Jesse sitting on the edge of the mattress, his scrawny slacks kicked to the floor and the coat-tails of his suit lapping at the tops of his thighs, the tan complexion of his thick legs contrasting so beautifully against the stark white sheets; a gorgeous vision straight out of Hanzo’s wettest dreams.

“I would sit down beside you,” Hanzo shakily begins, “and I would—uh, can I—“ Immediately, he hits yet another roadblock, though this time it’s due to the unforseeable difficulty of navigating unspoken boundaries. “Can I… kiss you?”

Jesse is worryingly silent for a brief moment, and for the umpteenth time that night, Hanzo is stricken with the immobilizing fear that he’d soiled this solitary silver lining in his life. “Yeah,” Jesse finally responds, so softly that Hanzo would think he’d imagined it if not for the ensuing murmur of, “I’d like that.”

“Alright.” Hanzo adamantly ignores the flutter of his pitiful heart when he continues, “I would kiss you. Gently, at first, because I would want to take my time with you.” A sharp hiss seeps through the phone, and a satisfied smirk touches his face from evoking such a delicious reaction so quickly. “But I would be unable to resist your gravitational pull, and our makeout session would naturally deepen, until I am square in your lap with my fingers fisted in your coat collar. I would haul you closer as I lick into your mouth—“

A deep rumble rattles over the line, the receptively obscene nature of which stops Hanzo in his tracks, arousal shooting to his core like a bolt of lightning. Timidly, he dips his fingers below the waistband of his underwear. He’s unsure if the actual objective of this is to get off—as if there’s any _other_ reason to be doing this—but he can’t ward off the irrational worry that he’ll take this too far and Jesse will call the whole thing off.

“Keep goin’,” Jesse pleads gruffly, a direct contradiction to Hanzo’s concerns.

He complies. “Then I would grind our hips together, slowly kissing my way down your jawline in the process. I would purposefully scrape my teeth against your neck. Maybe even nibble a mark there if you wanted me to.” He hesitates, coveting clarification with a weakly whispered, “Would you want me to?”

“God, yes. Want ya to mark me up,” Jesse requests in a gust of breath that drips with desire, and only a man made of stone could oppose such a gorgeous plea.

The heel of Hanzo’s palm kneads the base of his hard cock, a burst of pleasure smothering his voice into a roughened murmur. “Good. I would sink my teeth into your skin and suck a mark there, high enough that it can not be hidden by your shirt collar.” He pauses, gauging feedback to the boldly possessive move.

“Mm, _good_ ,” the appreciative purr sparks heat through Hanzo’s veins, but it’s nothing compared to the highly-addictive pledge of, “Want everyone to know I’m yours.”

His heart stutters, his tongue tripping over itself, coherent thoughts addled by this new unfathomable reality where Jesse is _his._

“Would ya like me to reciprocate?” Jesse offers tacitly.

“ _Please_ ,” Hanzo hardly recognizes his own voice like this, pitched high enough to fringe on a whimper.

There’s a brief noise that could easily be mistaken for static, but it transitions a little too seamlessly into Jesse’s velvety cadence as he starts, “‘Kay. I’d pop off the topmost button of your snazzy jacket, then make quick work of two more of ‘em, leavin’ your upper chest bare.”

“Am I not wearing a shirt underneath?” Hanzo bids enough of his breathlessness away to inquire.

“Honey, if my fantasy were perfect, you already wouldn’t be wearin’ anything at all. Lemme have this,” Jesse says, an endearing huff ruffling the receiver, and Hanzo is loath to deny him.

A laugh wavers noiselessly in his acquiesce of, “Go on.”

“I’ve always wanted to skim my lips over that beautiful ink of yours, so I’d start there,” he says, and that he’s put so much thought into it already makes Hanzo’s blush grow impossibly hotter, “kissin’ over the spiral of your dragon’s tail and followin’ it down to your cute lil nipple.” The phrasing is absurd enough to wrench a snort out of Hanzo, but Jesse steadily ignores it, his resolve not budging for a second. “I’d let ya feel my teeth catch on it before latchin’ onto the skin just above it and workin’ a mean hickey into your pretty tit. Y’know, the one you’re flashin’ all the time?”

It takes Hanzo a moment to find his voice, as Jesse’s doing a fantastic job at squeezing the life out of it with his uncanny prowess at dirty talk. “It is—“

“ _Tactical_ , yup, I know,” Jesse finishes for him, and there’s a certain aura of smugness that can be felt even through the phone when he purrs, “and so’s the mark I’m leavin’ on it. I know ya won’t hide it, ya dirty lil thing. Everyone’ll know ya took a roll in the hay with someone. That you _belong_ to someone. That you’re as much _mine_ as I’m _your’s_. ‘Cuz let’s face it, sweetpea, once people take notice of our matchin’ set, unless they’re dumber than a sack of bricks, I think they’ll be able to put two and two together.”

Hanzo lets him ramble, sinking comfortably into this invented knowledge that they’re a blatant item, getting inexplicably riled up by it. He pins blame unto the dragons for his possessive streak, as they’re extraordinarily territorial beasts and are innately linked to his soul. There are certain objects that possess sentimental value which he has felt a similar proprietorial pull toward, but he’s never staked his claim on another human being before, and the prospect is more stimulating than it ought to be.

“In that case,” Hanzo seductively decides to take the premise and run with it, “as soon as you are finished, I will cover your neck in love-bites. So that there is no mistaking it for anything other than my claim on you.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” The hunger that flecks his agreement fills Hanzo with a deep-seated satisfaction, the sated purrs of his dragons seeming to rattle against his very bones.

“I would like more, as well,” he asserts, knowing his clinginess must be transparent but not quite in the frame of mind to care. “It is only fair, after all.”

“Oh, baby, don’tcha worry about that. I’ll give ya as many hickies as your lil heart desires,” Jesse promises, and Hanzo is wracked with the most wonderful shudder. If he isn’t careful, he could get addicted to this; Jesse’s sonorous voice washing over him in these filthy vows, hotter than any daydream his desolate mind could cook up. “Wanna make ya feel good, angel. What else are ya in the mood for?”

There’s no use dancing around the main event any longer. Hanzo already has a hand wrapped around himself, and he thinks back to his adjourned fantasy, about how close he’d been to tasting Jesse’s cock. Though this still won’t be the real thing, it’s much more tangible, more concrete, more substantial than the mouthwatering visage he’d conjured up. So, without preamble, he murmurs, “I want to suck your cock.”

“Oh, uh, _god_ , o-okay,” Jesse stammers choppily, each wavering syllable seemingly punctured from his lungs. Hanzo derives immense pleasure from being able to so easily tie the man’s tongue up in knots. It feels like suitable payback for what had transpired earlier.

“Would you like that?” Hanzo asks, and this time, there is no misinterpreting the answer he receives as anything negative.

“Fuck yeah,” comes the winded response, “Just uh… I’m not sure how to say this without sounding like a massive douchebag.”

“Go on,” he goads.

“I’m… sorta… bigger than average,” Jesse hedges, a sheepishness tinging what would ordinarily be a bold claim.

Hanzo fights to stifle a snort. He’s no stranger to men overselling themselves, but Jesse didn’t strike him as the type. He supposes it’s just typical American behavior to brag about being genetically gifted. “How big?”

“Uh, like… ‘bout 8 inches.”

_What._ “What.” Hanzo has to make a conscious effort to snap his jaw shut before sternly accusing, “You are bluffing.”

Jesse at least has the audacity to sound marginally bashful when he insists, “I’m not. Swear on my gram’s grave.”

Slowly shaking his head in disbelief, Hanzo continues to grill him. “You mean to tell me that that gaudy thing you strap to your belt is completely unnecessary?”

“Hey,” Jesse protests, sounding outrageously offended, “It’s completely necessary. Drew your eye right where I wanted it, ain’t that right?”

He would facepalm if his hand weren’t presently occupied with more important matters. “So you wear it with the intent of attracting attention?”

A cocky scoff dignifies Jesse’s retort of, “Naw, I wear it because it looks good. But that’s a nice added bonus.”

Hanzo’s hand can no longer resist the magnetic force of his face, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re straying too far off-topic, and he needs to reign this back into sexy territory before his arousal flags. Thankfully, this new information prompts a plethora of lewd images to pop through his head, which in turn sends a shock of heat straight to his core. He’s always had an affinity for large dicks, as the challenge presents a potential stroke to his ego (in addition to the other types of stroking being done.) Admittedly, he’s never encountered one that he would truly consider a strenuous challenge… until now. “Do you doubt my ability to take you?”

“Didn’t say that. Just thought it polite to warn a man.”

“Well, there is something I neglected to warn you of as well.” A boastful grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he announces, “I have no gag reflex.”

A sharp laugh lances through the line. “Now who’s bluffin’?”

“I am serious. None whatsoever.” Alright, so there’s a chance he’s exaggerating a little, but to be fair, it’s possible that Jesse is, too. Besides, what’s the fun of phone sex without stretching the imagination? His smirk unwavering, he weaponizes his embellished skill with a dangerously low promise of, “And I will prove it by taking you all the way to the hilt.”

A sigh rattles through the receiver, jittery with anticipation. “No one’s ever deepthroated me before.”

Hanzo takes great pride in being able to purr, “Then allow me to be the first.” An appreciative groan bubbles over the receiver, and Hanzo begins to stroke his hard cock, his eyes drifting shut as he immerses himself in the fantasy. It’s been a long time since he’s given a blowjob, but he has a secret penchant for it, and he knows from experience that his passion shines through in his finessed ministrations. More than ever, he craves the heavy weight on his tongue, the heady musk infiltrating his senses, the salty tang of precome dripping over his taste buds. Imagining Jesse on the receiving end is admittedly a bad habit Hanzo has partaken in, and his solid presence makes the reverie a million times better.

Jesse disrupts his train of thought, but his commentary is far from unwelcome. “Christ, I’ll bet your mouth feels fuckin’ fantastic. Drivin’ me wild just thinkin’ about it, if I’m bein’ honest.” Indeed, he sounds wound up, his filthy words catching on heavy breaths.

“Are you touching yourself?” The question leaps from Hanzo’s mouth on its own accord, a wayward indication of his risen libido.

“Yeah, but I wish it was you.” The hazy lust shrouding his admission is softened by a scratchy vehemency, like he’s never spoken a greater truth in his life, like doing so is a risk, like he’s gripping the edge of a cliff face and has made the life-threatening decision of throwing himself off-kilter to outstretch a hand toward Hanzo.

Hanzo takes it. “I do, too.” He quickly steers their sentimental moment back into crude territory, dipping his voice into a wanton growl as he extrapolates, “I would take you all the way into the back of my throat and swallow around you like it is my _job_. Then I would pull back to give the head some much-needed attention, really take my time wrapping my tongue around it, savoring how good you taste.”

Jesse is a receptive audience, always groaning or grumbling a curse at just the right moment, and Hanzo is infinitely grateful for it. He finds himself having to squeeze the base of his cock a few times, just because of the occasional indecent noise trickling through the receiver being too hot to handle.

“Would ya let me put my hands in your hair?” Jesse asks, and if the perceptible pinch to his question is anything to go by, he’s already getting off to the mere idea of it.

“Oh, yes,” Hanzo hums sensually, tilting his head back a little as he loses himself to their raunchy illusion, “I would encourage it, even. And once you do, I would allow you to hold me still and use me for your own pleasure.” The concept sparks a bright flare of heat in his midsection, and he chokes on a gasp before salaciously snarling, “In fact, I _want_ you to. I want you to shove your huge cock into my mouth until it hits the back of my throat. And then I want you to fuck it until it’s raw.”

The sound that pours over the line is a downright _whimper_ , accompanied by the distinct slick sounds of Jesse jacking off. “God, you’d look so good between my legs, _fuck_ , don’t think I’d last very long,” he rambles, and judging from his heightening pitch, the statement also applies to the real world.

Not wanting this to end prematurely, Hanzo hastens to demand, “You can not come yet. Not before fucking me first.” A smirk slides over his face, and he sits up a little straighter as he suggests, “How do you feel about being ridden, cowboy?”

A hiss spills into a slew of swear words. “Sweet Jesus, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“I will take that as an enthusiastic yes?” Mirth mingles with the suave confidence that’s now emanating from Hanzo in waves. Compared to their earlier discussion, it feels somewhat like an uncanny role reversal, but he is hardly complaining.

“Yeah, sweet thing, that sounds like fuckin’ heaven.” The cowboy has quite the impure mouth on him, much to Hanzo’s wicked delight.

“Then after pulling away, I would gently maneuver you onto your back and straddle you.” He pictures Jesse going easily, wriggling earnestly against the mattress, a glint of wild excitement sparking his amber eyes. His hair would be a mess, tousled in places where Hanzo’s hands have carded through it, and the shirt he’d neglected to remove would be rumpled at the collar. The partial nudity is sexier than it ought to be, especially given the formal state of the attire and how dashing he knows it must look, and the instinctive twitch of Hanzo’s hips motivates him to get this show on the road. “I will skip over the boring prep work, but rest assured, I am liberal with it.”

“Ain’t nothin’ boring about stretching yourself open for me,” Jesse cuts in, and Hanzo shivers at how wrecked he already sounds, which really only gives him more incentive to expedite the pace.

“Perhaps, but it could not possibly compare to the main event.” As he resumes playing out the scenario, he quickly gets carried away with one particular detail, unintentionally dragging out the part he knows he would enjoy most. “I would slowly sink down onto your massive cock, enjoying how wonderfully you fill me, appreciating each and every inch.”

“Wow, Hanzo,” Jesse sighs in a smoky gust, and Hanzo’s stricken with the eeriest sensation of deja vu when he rasps, “I never woulda took ya for a size queen.”

“Please,” Hanzo scoffs, attempting to retain a condescending edge, but his voice is just this side of ragged, diminishing any trace of authority, “As if I would take your gifted attribute for granted.”

“Mighty kind of ya,” Jesse teases, a knowing lilt to his tattered tone.

“Indeed. I am a saint. But what’s a saint to an angel?” Immediately after the overzealous compliment leaves his mouth, abashed heat rushes to his face. He can only hope Jesse is not offended by him laying it on so thick; some might think it shallow, or ingenuine, but Hanzo would never waste breath on something that he does not mean. Deciding to simply barrel past it, he composes his disposition with a sultry, “After adjusting to your generous size, I would begin to move. Slowly at first, so as not to overwhelm you.”

“Aww,” Jesse coos, like Hanzo had just said something utterly adorable, and for the briefest of moments, he assumes it’s in acknowledgement to his flattering comment. But then Jesse continues, his timbre deepening into a rumble, “Well, while you’re takin’ your sweet time bouncin’ on my cock, I’ll grab your hips and pull ya down, makin’ ya speed up and reachin’ even deeper than you thought possible.”

The atmosphere of Hanzo’s room is suddenly as sweltering as an August heatwave, and he bites his knuckle to prevent an affected noise from seeping out when he humps into his opposite fist. His phone is presently secured between his ear and the crook of his shoulder, freeing up both of his hands for whatever ministrations he may need them for. “Eager,” he chides with a scornful click of his tongue after regaining his bearings, his unoccupied hand traveling down the center of his chest.

“Can hardly help it, baby, ya got me all outta sorts.” Unbidden, the mental image of a dishevelled Jesse McCree rises to Hanzo’s mind’s eye. The cowboy’s greedy hands will not remain still; they roam up and down the sides of Hanzo’s body, pausing intermittently to wrap around his waist, or to fondle his chest, or to reverently stroke his neglected dick.

As pleasing as it is to be worshipped from the man he’d been coveting after for so long, Hanzo can’t sit idly by while he shows a blatant lack of self-restraint and disregard for dominance. And wouldn’t Jesse look so pretty with his wandering hands brought to a stand-still and pressed firmly to the mattress, his arms straining against Hanzo’s strong grasp, his hungry eyes beseeching mercy while he makes pitiful attempts to twist free?

“Then I shall pin your wrists down.” Hanzo’s decisive statement is met with a gasp that’s seemingly torn from Jesse’s lungs.

“But, sweetness, then I can’t touch you,” he protests, aghast.

“Yes, that is the point.” Hanzo sniffs pompously, pawing at the meat of his left pec even as he chastises, “‘Hands to yourself,’ I would say, as if you have any choice but to obey.”

“You’ll have a hard time sayin’ anything at all when I start fuckin’ up into you anyway,” Jesse threatens huskily, and his dirty talk is so on-point that it feels as though he’s catering directly to Hanzo’s innermost desires. “I don’t need my hands to make ya weak in the knees, baby.”

The haughty intonation compliments Jesse’s silky accent so nicely that it’s all Hanzo can do to not choke over syllables. Swept in a wave of arousal, he drags his blunt nails down the expanse of his flat abdomen, shivering at the gratifying sting of pain that’s left in their wake. When he fails to conjure up a cohesive response, a fascinated hum permeates his scrambled thoughts and buzzes like electricity over his skin.

“Ya like that, don’tcha?” There’s a rapt scrape in Jesse’s low register, like this unexpected turn of events has awaken something carnal within him. “Ya talk a big game, but you’d love if I took control, wouldn’t you? Bet you’d lose your damn mind if I just flipped you onto your back and started pounding into you.”

The raunchy analyzation is so disparagingly apt that it feels like stumbling over a single step while descending a flight of stairs. Hanzo’s head spins, coherent words sticking to the back of his throat. “I would… not be opposed,” he manages haltingly.

“Then that’s exactly what I’ll do, babydoll,” the promise is as warm as it is vulgar, caught in the crossfire of affection and pure unadulterated lust, “I’ll rail you into the mattress until you’re moanin’ like a bitch in heat.”

As if actively proving the fantasy correct, a moan marrs Hanzo’s attempt to speak. After a surreptitious clear of his throat, he tries again, “I should have expected you to be rough.”

“Don’t know why ya wouldn’t. Thought I was—what’s the word ya used? Oh, yeah— _unsophisticated_ ,” the mock sneer is ravaged by a hoarse undertone, indicating his weakening resolve.

“It would seem so,” Hanzo agrees ardently, not faring much better.

“Funny, seemed like an insult at the time. But now lookatcha, gettin’ all worked up over it.” A dangerous growl devours Jesse’s taunts, thickening his accent into a more prominent presence.

“It… suits you.” Hanzo feels like he’s drowning, suffocating beneath a current of want so strong that he can hardly stand it.

“Ain’t that sweet.” Jesse must know what his voice does to Hanzo’s feeble heart, must know how it quivers with every crooned syllable, must know how it also makes the fire in his gut rise ever higher. There’s simply no way he can be ignorant to the affect each spoken word has, and Hanzo’s suspicions seem to be confirmed when Jesse’s inflection scorches with fervor. “Well, I’m startin’ to think it suits you just as nice. Especially when you’re squirmin’ under me, split open on my cock and makin’ such _unsophisticated_ noises.”

An embarrassingly desperate whine bubbles from Hanzo’s throat, and he sticks two fingers from his free hand into his mouth to prevent any more from spilling forth. He feels utterly debauched as he instinctively laps at the invasive digits, the introduction of a solid weight on his tongue adding fuel to the ever-growing fire.

Jesse’s disappointment at the absence of a reaction is palpable. In stark contrast to his prior gnarled expletives, he proceeds to offer painfully gentle encouragement. “C’mon, baby, let me hear ‘em. Lemme hear how pretty you sound when you’re gettin’ dicked down good and proper.”

In an instant, Hanzo’s dignity is torn to shreds by the fierce claws of passion. He is hapless to deny those simpering appeals, his fingers falling away from his mouth and dangling uselessly under his lips. “Jesse,” he keens, hips trembling as he twists his wrist on a particularly pleasurable upstroke, “You feel amazing, Jesse. You— _ah_ , feel so good inside me, and you fill me so well, I—” His coherency dissolves into a mess of indistinguishably pitched mumbles.

“There ya go, that’s it. You sound so good, angel… take me in so sweet, baby, _fuck,”_ Jesse babbles, so convincingly that it leaves Hanzo feeling despairingly empty. A whimper sizzles from his throat, his tongue laving habitually over his fingers before they slip between his legs on their own accord to tease desperately at his hole. It mitigates some of the desolation that comes with the act of phone sex, and for now, it will just have to be enough. Thankfully, Jesse does not cease talking, and the fact that his words are fraying into straining wisps only makes them that much more appetizing. “God _damn._ You feel so tight, sugar, so perfect for me.”

Just the sound of his voice makes Hanzo hot and bothered all over, but when it’s smothering him in saccharine praises, it makes him feel positively light-headed. Hanzo wants him so badly that he _aches_. He bucks up into his fist, teeth sinking into his lower lip as the movement drives the tip of one of his slickened digits into his ass. His bow-roughened fingers can’t properly replicate the figmented touch of Jesse’s much gentler ones, nor his less punishing grip, and they definitely don’t come close to mimicking the brutal thrusts of his cock. For what it’s worth though, it feels incredible, and when he closes his eyes, his imagination does its level best to pad the blank slates, and Jesse’s erotic prattling does the rest.

Hanzo’s enjoying this so much that he almost doesn’t want this to end, but he knows that all good things must, and he’s not going to last much longer.

From the sound of it, neither will Jesse. “ _Hah_ , Hanzo, I’m—I’m gonna—where do you—“

“Inside,” Hanzo demands, voice ruined as he rapidly approaches his own orgasm, “Come inside me.”

“Holy _fuck,_ ” Jesse swears, and the noise he makes when he comes can only be described as a sob. It’s music to Hanzo’s ears, and it’s this combined with the delicious hint of pressure applied to his hole that sends him over the edge.

“Jesse,” he gasps as his cock jumps in his grip and come spills through the webs of his fingers, drooling over his knuckles in sticky spurts. His hips continue stirring in these aborted little jerks, breathless whimpers cascading from his slackened jaw.

Gradually, he comes down from the high. After cleaning himself off with lazy sweeps of a tissue, he crumples it into a ball and gingerly sets it on the bedside table with the intent to properly discard of it in the morning. Then he nestles into his pillow, his phone held taut to his ear, Jesse’s heavy breaths mirroring his own.

“That was really good, sweetheart,” Jesse eventually says, his voice all rough around the edges.

“Yes,” Hanzo concurs, a smug grin touching his face, “It was.” An awkward silence befalls them, and it brings with it a swift dose of doubt. Everything had seemed to happen so fast, and though there had been a mutual confession of sorts, they’ve yet to tread into the uncharted territory of what either of them expect out of this relationship. Hanzo knows for a fact that he wants everything Jesse has to offer, but he also knows that’s a tall order, and apprehension seizes him in its dastardly clutches.

Rather than face his fears and commence a solemn discussion, Hanzo chooses the coward’s way out and mumbles, “Well, I suppose I should let you go so that you can finish making those other phone calls.“

“Huh? What calls?” Genuine befuddlement tangles Jesse’s question into the cutest lilt, the likes of which suggests that he might be tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy.

“You—When you first called me, you insinuated you were going to make a few other calls,” Hanzo elaborates, ignoring the bold portion of his brain that is currently calling him a dumbass for continuing to shy away from an adult conversation.

“Oh. I, uh… I lied,” Jesse murmurs, guilt lacing his confession. “You were the only one I was gonna call. Wanted to hear you.”

The admission makes Hanzo’s heart skip a beat. “Really?” he chokes out.

“Yeah, I—uh, I missed your voice.” He pauses and then, in a tone more raw than Hanzo has ever heard it, “I miss _you_.”

It hurts in the best way. “I miss you, too,” Hanzo whispers with conviction. His bed feels too big all of a sudden, his arms too empty. He gathers together every scrap of courage that he possesses and softly asks, “Do you want to know what I would do if I were there?”

“Yeah.” Jesse sounds vaguely distant, like his phone is not directly against his face, or like he is falling victim to the prying grasp of slumber. “I do.”

“I would wrap my arms around you and hold you close,” Hanzo says quietly, his fingers curling into the vacant sheets beside him. “I would nuzzle into your chest, and listen to your heartbeat until it lulls me to sleep.”

“Sounds awful nice,” Jesse comments, even farther away now, and a tiny snore lapses just barely into a structured sentence, “Can’t wait to see ya again, so we can do that for real.”

“Yes,” Hanzo exhales, mystified and wholly content. His eyes drift shut, sleep finally taking pity and closing in on him, engulfing him in a warm blanket of comfort. “For real,” he echoes wistfully, and as he succumbs to exhaustion, he doesn’t imagine anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a self-indulgent thing that I whipped up. Hope ya'll enjoyed! If you liked this content, feel free to follow me on twitter @partymeowth


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